


Whisper

by AllieSuperwholock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Romance, Slightlycliche
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieSuperwholock/pseuds/AllieSuperwholock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arabella Claire, recently relocated to London, has had quite the tumultuous year. Mycroft Holmes, who helps regulate Witness Protection (among other things) places her at Baker St. (right near his brother, just for her protection). Although she isn't acquainted with Sherlock Holmes until nearly a year after she moves to Baker St., they quickly develop an interesting relationship. Will Arabella steal his heart or will peril steal Sherlock's life first?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody, this is my first story. I have a lot of things written, but this is really the only thing I'm willing to post right now. Let me know if you like it, and if you would like more of it, and tell me what else you'd like me to write. I'm totally open to suggestions for this work or other works! This is a little short, just a bit of a test.   
> Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock isn't mine, darlings.

Easily, the worst night of my life was the night that I witnessed the most important person in all of America get murdered. I was just a journalist, hoping to get a few news stories published to gain some credibility before going off on my own to write; instead I got a nice, permanent, mental snapshot of what brains look like and a heaping pile of witness protection. 

At first, I was relocated to Kentucky and given the name “Isabelle Prescott”. About three months into my stay, I was discovered by the people I was hiding from, kidnapped, and nearly murdered. Straightaway they sent me Washington and gave me the misnomer “Jeanne Kingsley”. I was discovered there, too, and was nearly killed again. 

Finally, they sent me to Britain- London, in fact, and this time I was even set up with a job right next door to my new apartment. I lived in a rather large flat, 221C Baker Street, and I worked most nights at the sandwich shop downstairs. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and I became good friends. We shared a cup of tea most every morning. This time around, I was “Arabella Claire Thompson”. Interesting and simple, and I liked it enough. 

I had a very interesting neighbor, too. Sherlock Holmes. He had magnificent eyes, and absolutely perfect, long fingers. But I never properly spoke to him- he was always avoiding me. His best friend, John Watson, however (who had a wonderful wife and an adorable little girl) chatted with me sometimes when he was visiting Sherlock, and he was great company to keep. I started making a few side dollars babysitting the baby, Beth, and I became quite good friends with the Watsons. 

One morning, about eight months after I moved in (and long since I had given up having a conversation with Sherlock) I was walking downstairs to get a cup of coffee. It was the one American custom, other than the accent, that I could not drop. No matter how good tea was, it could not be as good as coffee- ever. 

I met John on the way down, and we made small talk outside of Sherlock’s fl-BAM! 

The door of 221B had flung open and knocked me flat on my back. 

“Oh, God,” I muttered, pressing my fingers to my face and feeling the blood. “I think you broke my nose.” 

Nervously I chuckled, not sure if I had made a joke or if my nose was actually broken. John, ever the gentleman, helped me to my feet and ushered me into Sherlock’s flat. 

“Pinch the bridge of your nose, don’t tip your head back,” he instructed me as he cleared space from one of the insanely messy counters in Sherlock’s kitchen. One of my hands collected blood drip and the other was pinching as hard as I could at the bridge of my nose. 

I noticed, amidst all of the commotion, that Sherlock had taken off his coat and scarf and was standing, watching. 

“Damnit, Sherlock, help!” John groaned. “Get her a paper towel or something, for christ’s sake you nearly broke her nose, not to mention her head…” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She seems fine to me, John, aside from the bloody nose.” 

I nodded my head. “I feel fine.” 

Sherlock cocked his head in my direction, “Why, Miss…” he faltered. After eight months of being my neighbor, and he didn’t even know my name? And I babysat his God-daughter at least once a week, for goodness sake. 

“You don’t even know her name?!” John looked at him, surprised. “How in the world…” 

“I had no need to,” Sherlock rebutted. 

John handed me a paper towel as he rolled his eyes at Sherlock. Eye rolls were, apparently, common here. I wiped my hand as best I could and held it out to Sherlock. 

“Arabella Claire Thompson,” I smiled, shaking his hand. He had no qualms about the blood, I noticed. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered. Those long, long fingers were very cold, and the eyes just as multicolored. 

“I’m glad to meet you,” I said, offering my best smile. 

“The feeling is mutual. Where in America are you from?” 

“Uhm.” I stuttered a bit. I never quite knew how to answer this. “Washington.” 

“Oh,” said John. Shit I thought. “I thought you said you were from Kentucky.” 

“Well, I was born in Kentucky, but I was raised in Washington.” 

Sherlock eyed me suspiciously. “Hmm, very interesting. I visited New York once when I was young, have you ever been there?” 

“Yes, actually, I love New York.” I closed my eyes and thought of New York City, my real hometown. How I missed the place. 

“Well,” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat, “I feel like I owe you a cup of tea after that fiasco, Miss Thompson.” 

“No, that’s fine, really.” 

“I must insist. John, would you care to join?” 

John had a funny look on his face. “No, you two go along. I’m meeting Mary for lunch in twenty anyway.” 

 

 

Coffee with Sherlock became a regular event, on Mondays around 11 am. Soon enough, I even began to help him and John on some of their more mild cases-often, their hours conflicted with my work hours. Coffee always stayed consistent, for a few simple reasons; I enjoyed sitting with him, even if we didn’t speak and I liked hearing his voice and all about his knowledge when we did. Sherlock was cold, and stoic, and I had trouble at first with his harshness and bitter honesty- but truthfully, when I learned to look at what he said instead of taking it straight to heart I often learned things about myself that I wouldn’t have otherwise. 

“Arabella Claire,” he began one day, smiling carefully. “What is your real name?” 

I nearly spit coffee everywhere. “I...I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock,” I said defensively. 

“Arabella,” he smirked, “Don’t try and lie to me, dear.” 

I frowned. “I’m not lying,” I demanded, “My name is Arabella Claire.”

“Really, you can stop. I’m seeing right through this.” 

“Prove it, then, how do you know Arabella isn’t my real name?” That probably wasn’t the 

wisest question to ask a super sleuth. He smiled a little, inhaled deeply, and began to speak, “First of all, when you write your name you pause, begin with a different letter in the wrong part of the paper, and then write ‘Arabella’. Second, your response to your name is delayed. I experimented with John and Molly- when I say their name, they respond almost immediately, and if not within 1.5 seconds approximately. You, on the other hand, take 4.3 seconds to respond to your name on average. This is over three seconds longer than the normal, cognitive adult. 

From this, I would deduce that you have some sort of mental delay- however, based on the fact that you are extremely bright; almost to my level, in fact, I have decided that Arabella Claire must not be your name. Furthermore, my observation of your difficulty writing your name further cements my hypothesis that Arabella is not your real name. So, pray tell, what is it actually?” 

There was no point in arguing now, in fact it would just make me look like a fool. Instead, I said, “I can’t tell you, Sherlock. I wish I could, but I can’t tell anyone. It could get everyone hurt, and I can’t risk that.” 

“Does Lestrade know?” 

“No, no, of course not.” 

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, he put me at Baker Street.” 

“Why?” 

“He thought you’d make a good bodyguard, although I didn’t interact with you until 8 months into my living here, and he knew Mrs. Hudson needed help with the upkeep of the place.”

Sherlock ‘hmmm’ed’ under his breath. “But why wouldn’t he tell me?” 

“It’s international witness protection, Sherlock. He can’t tell anyone. They’re still searching for me.” 

“Who, exactly, are they?”

“Sherlock, I know you know what witness protection means. I cannot tell you. There could be eyes on us right now.” 

“But there isn’t, because I would have noticed.” 

“You didn’t know what you were looking for until five minutes ago,” I said. He rolled his eyes, and I checked my watch. “My shift starts in five.” 

“I’ll get going to work, then, have a good day...Arabella.” 

With a wink and a flash of coat collar, he was gone. I really am beginning to care for him too much, I thought. But, I figured, thinking of Molly, that really isn’t hard to do, especially when it’s him.


End file.
